


Our Old Friend, Our Familiar Foe

by sinstralpride



Category: Jumper
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-14
Updated: 2010-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-06 06:39:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinstralpride/pseuds/sinstralpride
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Do not underestimate Death. He takes many forms, many guises. Some forms may please us, others repulse us; but beneath his shifting cloak he is the same- our old friend, our familiar foe, that taker of all that is dear to us, the bringer of ultimate peace."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our Old Friend, Our Familiar Foe

**Author's Note:**

> I finally went in the direction that my brain has been pulling me and this is what I wrote. Beware, this is not pretty or nice in any way, shape, or form.

The only thing Griffin cared about was death.

 

Dealing out as much of it to Paladins as he could, until the day it was his turn, to be exact. The little day-to-day things didn’t interest him, he was beyond the point of even noticing. Frivolous concerns such as fashion, manners, and the law never bothered him His clothes were practical, even if they were something that occasionally caught his eye. Manners had very little place in a lair, or on the run, so he never let people’s discomfort bother him. And the law… well, by all rights he should be serving consecutive life sentences for the things he’s done. Not that he cared anymore.

 

There was something fascinating and pleasing about beating someone to death with a baseball bat. The firm grip in his hands, smooth and cool, at least to begin with. Once he got started, the grip tended to become warm and tacky with blood and other bits of once pulsing humanity. The air would be filled with meaty thwacks as wood met flesh with as much force as he could muster, and he reveled in it. Soft moans, sharp cries, grunts and whimpers… music. Occasionally there would be a crunch of cartilage or a crack of bone. It was miraculous. The feel of it sent shivers down his spine and put a grin of disturbing grin of glee on his face. Sometimes, when the bat wasn’t enough, he got out the knife he’d pulled from Sam’s cooling body, and the rich iron-filled smell of blood would cling to him for days. It was an awfully large knife to be leaving the delicate rends in flesh that Griffin preferred, but he was dedicated to his craft… his art. He was patient.

 

Like a child at Christmas, he’d dance in place and fidget until the moment finally came. That perfect moment when he _knew_ that he’d won and could take his time with the last one. Paladins whispered about the things that would happen to you if you were the last one standing in a fight with _him._ Muscles aching, lungs burning from exertion, fingers clenched so hard on the grip of his baseball bat that the knuckles were white. Griffin couldn’t go too long with out that rush. Sometimes he was afraid that even if Paladins stopped hunting jumpers tomorrow… he wouldn’t be able to stop hunting Paladins.

 

 

Griffin understood death better than anything.


End file.
